Top 100 Albums - #34: Hunky Dory (1971)

David Bowie's highest entry on the chart is Hunky Dory, the album which preceded his commercial breakthrough.
After recording a number of forgotten singles under the pseudonym Davy Jones, Bowie signed to Deram Records and released a self-titled album in the autumn of 1967. The album synthesised contemporary psychedelia with his love for music hall, and sold poorly, as did his cult-novelty single, 'The Laughing Gnome'. Bowie spent 1968 writing songs for established artists of the day, only resurfacing (so to speak) with the release of 'Space Oddity'. Recorded and released to coincide with the Moon landing, it became a UK Top 5 hit and made Bowie an overnight success. The resulting album, Space Oddity (1969), took on a much more psychedelic twist, to the extent that commentators saw it (and the single) as an allegory for taking drugs, and Tony Visconti dropped out of producing it. The more rock-heavy The Man Who Sold The World (1970), which followed shortly afterwards, showed the first hints of androgyny emerging in Bowie's image.

We begin with a well-known classic. 'Changes' manages to be whimsical, eccentrically English and a pop song all at the same time. The minute you first hear that eight-note riff on the piano (at 0:12), a series of happy tingles run up your spine. With the intro over, Bowie is free to play around with his words, throwing away amazing lines like So I turned myself to face me in the first verse. But despite this rushed style - and the lyrics tripping over the ends of lines, à la Paul Simon - this is amazingly catchy. The chorus with its Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes takes off The Who's 'My Generation' as Bowie sets out the manifesto for his chameleonic personality, the true magnitude of which was only just becoming clear.

We then go from strength to strength as we move on to 'Oh! You Pretty Things'. The piano remains, and once again we are given a treat with the riff. The lyrics are bizarre, but for all their surrealism and obscure references, they all seem to make sense. Like 'Drive-In Saturday' from Aladdin Sane (1973, #56), they pick up on the theme of a bleak future, where on this occassion the youth have allied with aliens to take over the world. But like 'Drive-In Saturday', you have no real need to understand all these undertones or plot points in order to either enjoy the song or find something meaningful in it. And while the piano dominates the mix, the drums of Woody Woodmansey are perfectly timed and unobtrusive, allowing Bowie to roam freely in his own little world, to the utter delight of everyone listening.

Sadly, however, the run of good luck soon ends. We interpolate straight into 'Eight Line Poem', intended as a sequel of sorts to 'Oh! You Pretty Things'. But this is completely different in feel. With its countryish guitar and more washed-out piano, it has a more American feel. That serves to completely spoil the mood of the album, which so far had immersed itself in late-1960s folk and psychedelia. And even when you lay the lyrics out in front of you, you still have no idea what they mean.

If you can weather this let-down, you will come to one of Bowie's most famous creations. 'Life On Mars?' features Rick Wakeman on keyboards and came indirectly from Bowie's work as a commissioned songwriter. In late 1968 he wrote 'Even A Fool Learns To Love', placing his lyrics over a French song 'Comme d'Habitude'. A year later, in 1969, the same French song had been re-written as 'My Way' for Frank Sinatra; 'Life On Mars?' is Bowie's parody of the Sinatra hit. But although it is underscored by a feeling of bitterness for missing out on that level of success, the overall mood of the piece is one of surreal grandiosity. It was later described by BBC Radio 2 as "a cross between a Broadway musical and a Salvador Dalì painting"¹, and that's not far off. Either way, it's a brilliant song.

'Kooks' is a lot easier on the palate, if Northern accents are your sort of thing. Or French horns, for that matter. Bowie wrote this song for his then-newborn son Duncan Jones (also known as Zowie Bowie). The piano is straight out of music hall and Bowie seems completely relaxed, almost jubilant. The lyrics speak of his growing acceptance of his zany nature; an indicative example is the opening lines of the second verse: And if you ever have to go to school/ Remember how they messed up this old fool. This is very repetitive, but in a hooky, catchy way rather than an irritating one.

While 'Kooks' was droll, laid-back and comforting, 'Quicksand' is full of brooding and wailing. It's Bowie at his most impenetrable yet, with references to Greta Garbo and Friedrich Nietzsche which often don't make sense. But while this is heady and bleak, on the plus side it features some very well-executed string arrangements, the work of guitarist Mick Ronson. These seemingly indistinguishable background features come into their own in the second half of the track and it all appears a little clearer.

Of all the songs on the album, 'Fill Your Heart' is most typical of the mood Bowie tried to create. Which is ironic, considering he didn't write it, and tragic, considering it's rubbish. Crossing flaired-trouser folk with jaunty music-hall piano, this is a cover of a b-side by US novelty act Tiny Tim. But as with 'Life On Mars?', this song has gone through many motions before Bowie got his hands on it, and the result is nearly a complete mess. Bowie shrieks the closing lines of each verse in an effort to sound new and interesting, but in truth this song, like so much rubbish from the 1960s, is cheap, rigid and completely forgetable.

It is good to know, then, that Bowie has chosen his influences more wisely with 'Andy Warhol' and 'Song For Bob Dylan'. The former fades in from the end of 'Fill Your Heart'. For the first 50 seconds or so, we are treated to reverberating saxophones, studio chatter and distant laughter. From then on in, the guitars becomes flamenco and Bowie goes all tongue in cheek about one of his greatest idols. Warhol reportedly disliked the song because it made fun of his physical appearance², but when you actually listen, it comes across a whole lot more endearing, and has a great chorus. 'Song For Bob Dylan' is slightly more serious and respectful about the man with a voice like sand and glue. The guitars are more sneering and snarling than on the previous tracks, and the drums are back with a vengeance, cleverly pandering to Dylan's late-1960s work with The Band and his classic album Nashville Skyline (1969).

The penultimate track is a real belter. 'Queen Bitch' begins with one of the best double-tracked guitar riffs in rock music; it begins on Bowie's acoustic, and then a few seconds later Ronson's Fender barges in on top of it and kicks up the whole piece. Everything about this tribute to The Velvet Underground feels miles, miles better than anything before it; even 'Oh! You Pretty Things' struggles to match it. Trevor Boulder's melodic bass line ripples through the mix beneath the guitars, titillating you throughout, while Woodmansey returns to his best, dynamic yet restrained. At 3:19 this isn't the shortest song on the album, but it has the punchy nature of a motown jive. It's the best track on the album by far, and a cut above anything he created as Ziggy Stardust.

How disappointing it is, then, that we finish on a real bum note. By Bowie's own admission, 'The Bewlay Brothers' was only written to confuse Americans.³ Its garbled, twisted lyrics are specifically designed to have no meaning whatsoever. As a result, once the obvious irony has worn off - which it will very quickly - there is no point to this track. Commentators have read into this being about Bowie's schizophrenic half-brother, or pedalling a homosexual agenda, but you will come away from this feeling that they have wasted their time.

The best Bowie albums are always unpredictable; they change intention and direction when you least expect it, so that you end up with a collection of very different songs, often at the cost of overall consistency. On these grounds, Hunky Dory fits the bill as a great Bowie album. Not all the songs on here are brilliant - some in fact are quite below-par - but each is so charmingly different from the next that there is something for everyone. But unlike a lot of Bowie's albums, here the eclecticism and variety actually serves as a cement to hold it all together. Whereas subsequent albums took a certain style and pulled it in many different directions - as on Young Americans (1975, #73) - on Hunky Dory there are many strange and wonderful genres at work, all blending together to produce something wonderful. This is Bowie's best album without a shadow of doubt, capturing him on the brink of superstardom. It is a fitting testament to his abilities and it remains his most endearing work.

3.91 out of 5

References
¹ BBC Radio 2, 'Sold On Song - Top 100 - Life On Mars', http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/soldonsong/songlibrary/lifeonmars.shtml. Accessed on July 18 2008.
² Jon Howell, 'David Bowie FAQ: Hunky Dory (1971)', http://www.teenagewildlife.com/info/faq/57.html. Accessed on July 19 2008.
³ David Buckley. Strange Fascination - David Bowie: The Definitive Story (London: Virgin Books, 1999) pp.114-115 - cited in 'The Bewlay Brothers', http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bewlay_Brothers. Accessed on July 19 2008.

The Battle of 1971

People often attack me for hating Led Zeppelin. Well, perhaps 'hating' is the wrong way to put it. Perhaps it's more accurate to say: I believe Led Zeppelin's impact on music is overstated, their abilities as composers and musicians are overrated, and the cult that surrounds them to the extent that they are worshipped as gods is freakish, scary and - frankly - pathetic. In other words, Led Zeppelin get on my tits, and with good reason.

The motivation behind this post was that I was recently leant a copy of Led Zeppelin IV by a friend and fan. The album is also known as 'the fourth album', 'Zoso', 'symbol' or a dozen others because of its blank cover- the band were sick of being seen as a commercial product. Since its release in November 1971 has been heralded as both Led Zep's best work and the album that wrote the book for rock in the 1970s and beyond.

As ever, rather than cosign myself to ignorant opposition, I dived straight in and had a listen. Initially I was impressed - the opening songs, 'Black Dog' and 'Rock And Roll' warrant praise simply for the ferocity and tenacity of John Bonham's drumming. When coupled with Robert Plant's vocals on the breaks, the latter is remarkable.

It is when the album moves from these hard rock numbers to the folky jam 'The Battle For Evermore' that the bottom falls out. Driven by mandolin, Page plays like a spare part while Plant mumbles through meaningless gibberish. Now, a lot of people will say all lyrics in progressive rock are meaningless gibberish - and with the case of Yes they have a point - but I've listen to enough to tease our those who can cut it (like The Who and Pink Floyd) and those who can't.

Now we come to 'Stairway To Heaven'. This song has been frequently voted as the greatest rock song ever. I have heard stories of best friends having all the lyrics tattoed on their backs, I've encountered endless tributes on YouTube and of course, I've heart about the alleged backmasking. For those who aren't in the know, apparently if you play it backwards, there are Satanic messages hidden - the chorus goes 'Here's to my sweet Satan' and then there's something about a shed. Some say coincidence, some say it was deliberate, I'm not sure myself.

With all these expectations, I was utterly underwhelmed. The song starts well, and if it were but an instrumental piece i would be pleasant to while away the hours listening to the great flute work of the underrated John Paul Jones. But Robert Plant comes in, and although the lyrics are a little more captivating, they end up being rambling. And the end of the song is ruined by Plant - at his worst, as here, all he can do is scream inanely (cf. 'Since I've Been Loving You' from Led Zeppelin III (1970)).

'Misty Moutain Hop' starts off trying to be adventurous with the sycopathic beats and oft-synching of guitar and drums. While it is described by AllMusicGuide.com as a 'pounding hippie satire', it ends up sounding like a funeral dirge for stoned has-beens. Plant oscillates widely between a drone and a pointless screech, and the whole band seems badly out of control.

Both 'Four Sticks' and 'Going to California' attempt to set the record straight, the former with Bonham 's impressive high-hat work, the latter with Page's acoustic work. But while both are better, they are hardly heights of perfection since they lack one important factor - John Paul Jones. Whether on bass, keyboards or creating wonderful arrangements, he was the one who kept things ticking over while Messrs. Plant, Page and Bonham lose their focvus with pretentious nothings passed off as songs. It was his keyboard contributions in particular that held the band together, especially as Page's heroin addiction crippled his playing. Without his keyboards, In Through The Out Door (1979) - their last album - would have been unbearable.

The closing song, 'When the Levee Breaks' - on which the band contributed with Deep South blue legend Memphis Minnie - is the only song that matches the openers for quality, although it is a tad too long. It has fantastic moments, especially when Page's two-note riff is matched by Bonham's snare and cymbal combination. But you finish listening wishing that that was how the whole album had been, instead of giving you two good songs and then losing focus to the point of making you bored.

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As you will be aware, I am biased towards The Who. But there is a very good case for saying that Who's Next is better. Released in August of the same year, it represents the apogee of The Who's efforts to fuse different genres (rock, blues and electronica) - if not the apogee of The Who itself.

Who's Next in the first place may not match the ambitions of The Who's two rock operas - the slight Tommy (1969) and worthy rival Quadrophenia (1973). Indeed, much of the album was cobbled together from the Lifehouse Project, a multimedia project of Pete Townshend's whose scope was so great that he suffered a nervous breakdown and was forced to abandon it. But even with that in mind, when you heard the synthesisers at the beginning of 'Baba O'Riley', you sense a progressive mood or air about things. But unlike his glam rock contemporaries, Townshend doesn't let the lyrics get lost in pretension. Their earthiness - echoed in Roger Daltrey's voice - make it instantly listenable and relevant - that's what made 'My Generation' so unique.

Both 'Bargain' and 'Love Ain't For Keeping' are more bluesy numbers (though only just, considering the quickfire drumming of Keith Moon on the former). Though more relaxed, they have a coolness about them, and you get the impression of a band being comfortable - not in the sense that they are not pushing new boundaries, but rather that they are not trying to play above their (immense) abilities.

'My Wife', written by bass player John 'Thunderfingers' Entwistle, is exemplary of both his dark humour and knack for writing hard rock songs. It's a showcase for his horn work, and his vocals are a welcome break from Daltrey gusto, which though highly suited to Townshend's song, don't fit well when it comes to Entwistle's (a textbook example is the infamous 'Fiddle About' off Tommy, which is about child molestation).

'The Song Is Over' switches the emphasis to piano, with Townshend providing vocals and adding a vulnerable edge to the piece. But before this becomes irritating, Moon and Daltrey take control with a powerful double chorus, and from then on they're in control, and rightly so. With Entwistle powering away underneath the madness, the song ends with a razor sharp repeating solo from Moon.

The next three songs are more subdued. 'Getting In Tune' begins on a downer - but not for long. Soon Moon kicks in and the rock swagger reemerges with its head reared, back by a powerful riff and glorious bass guitar. The repetition of the hook in the middle can be slightly irritating after a few spins, but then again most all albums tend to have a dip in the middle. The follow-up, 'Going Mobile', is more modish and for reason is the lesser one on the album - Townshend does sound a little tinny, though his acoustic guitar work makes up for it. 'Behind Blue Eyes', the last of the three, has soleful lyrics which are elegantly delivered by Daltrey, and, as he has personally pointed out, Moon comes in and wittily plays over him in the final third of the song.

Finally, we come to 'Won't Get Fooled Again', which ranks alongside 'My Generation' as The Who's most political song and 'Pinball Wizard' as their most well-known. For me, this anthem cleans the floor with both of them - thoughconsidering the context, it would be foolish to call it their equivalent of 'Stairway To Heaven' (no Satanic messages in here, for one thing). Here all the ingredients that thus far have made the album interesting - synthesisers, power chords, amazing drumming, gripping vocals and a loud, loud bass (something Jones never got the hand of - combine to create a piece of eight-and-a-half-minute magic. Daltrey delivers the lyrics with panache and swagger, and his scream, though now rather clichéd, is emphatically brilliant. Moon and Townshend, both stoked up on booze for the live versions, are free to run riot while Entwistle keeps it all together and finds the time to strum some complex improv of his own.

For me, Who's Next wipes the floor with Led Zeppelin IV. It's more focussed (ironically), it is more successful in mixing many different genres without being uneven, the lyrics are more memorable and it achieves an even balance of the four musicians - The Who, like Cream, was a battleground for control between the four musicians expressed in volume, while in Zeppelin Plant and Page dominated to the extent that until Physcial Graffiti (1975) Jones was a shrinking violet. That's not to say Led Zeppelin IV is awful - quite the opposite. But perhaps we should seek to judge great bands more by the actual music and less by their surrounding mystique. Both achieved much, but out of the two it is The Who that have truly lasted.